Fires of the Old World XV — The Serpent-River Dance
There was once a bend in the river where birds would not settle.
Cows lowered their heads, then stepped back. Even the wind seemed to pass that water with its mouth closed. In that deep, dark pool lived Kaliya, the serpent, who had made fear into a home and poison into a kingdom.
Then Krishna came to the riverbank.
He did not bring a weapon.
He climbed the kadamba tree, leapt into the black water, and rose above the many-hooded serpent with an ankle-bell bright against the roar. The river watched. The village watched. Yashoda watched with her hands pressed to her mouth.
And Krishna danced.
Not to destroy.
Not to boast.
He danced until the poison loosened.
He danced until the serpent bowed.
He danced until the river remembered how to carry the moon.
The Serpent-River Dance is a hearthlit retelling of Krishna and Kaliya: a tale of venom, mercy, fear, and the child who stepped onto the serpent as if onto a song.
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Fires of the Old World XV — The Serpent-River Dance
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On The Lantern Chronicles, I gather writings from Angkor, myth and legend, contemplative essays, and poetry — works shaped by silence, beauty, wonder, memory, and the deeper questions that follow us through the world.
It is a place for stone and story, reflection and vow, shadow and revelation.
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